Sherlock Wants Constant Attention!
by BlackCats-and-Magic
Summary: *ONE-SHOTS MINI-STORY* John uses his unique love for Sherlock to give him exactly the kind of attention he wants! ((*Rated M for a reason, guys*)) JOHNLOCK! It's gettin' cute, it's gettin' sexy, and it's gettin' feels-y!
1. Chapter 1

_**Hello and Welcome! **_

"_**Sherlock", Sherlock Holmes X John Watson (2014) (a.k.a. Johnlock)**_

_**Because my boyfriend has forbidden me to see the Season 3 without him, I've decided to write a story with only minor details. Thank you for being patient and not killing me with words! :D**_

_**I don't know whether or not John had a cat when he was a child, but in this story, he did. As for Sherlock, he didn't. FYI, not a lot of suitable synonyms for "erection" and it seems I don't like to finish sentences so deal with it. ;***_

_**Shout-out to my cat for inspiring me to write this particular story (except the smut) and for sitting on me the entire time while doing so.**_

_**Thank You and Enjoy the Show!**_

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John sat comfortably in his plush chair with the newspaper on his lap. The late afternoon sunlight was perfect reading light and he hadn't been sitting there long – just long enough to have read the sports column, the business column, and the front page, usually saved for shocking information. He found none of it shocking in the least; it was still better than mindlessly watching the 6-foot tall pale man pace back and forth across the living room of their flat. Sometimes he would stop and stare out the window. Sometimes he would sit in his chair across from John's with his knees to his chin. It was all just part of his routine when he was bored.

Sherlock was a little bit more on edge than usual, though. Every time John peeked over the top of his paper, he would see Sherlock moving part of the curtain to look down at the street. His eyes would follow a car or two that passed by. Sherlock Holmes's behavior was generally out of the ordinary, but this afternoon was untypical even for the black-haired genius.

"Sherlock?" John asked, hardly needing to move his eyes to get a good look at his figure. Sherlock said nothing but turned completely around to face him. "Something wrong? You seem a little out-of-place." He set his newspaper down, instantly forgetting everything he read.

'I'm fine. Fine, John. Why wouldn't I be?" he replied quickly. John tried hard not to chuckle at his response. The man was never "fine"; he always had something on his mind.

"Well, you're pacing around like a nervous animal, staring out the window like you're expecting someone you're anxious about – "

"What, like Mycroft or something?" John picked his words carefully.

"No, I'm thinking someone a little more than just Mycroft. Want to tell me anything? Anything at all?" Sherlock didn't respond. He hurried to his chair and watched John with big blue-green eyes. John waited for him to say something.

Sherlock's expression loosened. He crossed his arms and legs and slowly leaned back, never once taking his gaze off his friend.

"What would you do if I told you, John?"

What kind of question was that? Sherlock knew that John was his companion, flatmate, even his best friend. But he didn't say he was bored like he always did, so something else was bothering him.

"I would listen, of course. You have my full attention."

Sherlock just stared at him, his eyes narrowing.

"Alright. I haven't been sleeping well recently, always waking up between one and three in the morning with more energy than I know what to do with, and none of it is useful for new cases which aren't coming in as often as I'd like them to. That's my main problem, currently, doctor. Now tell me your input."

John sat there blankly, replaying the words of Sherlock's short explanation. The man was just going through sleep troubles?

"It's common to have sleep problems once in a while, I guess, but what do you do between one and three in the morning with all that energy?"

"I pace around my room. Toss and turn in bed. Stare at the ceiling. Anything but sleep, basically."

"Why didn't you tell me sooner like this morning?"

"Because I needed to know how I would go about my day with the lack of sleep, John."

"Then I don't know what to tell you, Sherlock." He retrieved his newspaper and tried to understand whatever nonsense he was looking at.

Sherlock did not like the sudden lack of attention. He pushed himself up and stepped behind John's chair, looking over his shoulder. The literature column, ugh. He rolled his eyes and draped his long arms over John's shoulders, crossing them over John's sweater-covered chest, and rested his chin on top of the clean blonde hair. They stayed like that for a few awkward moments before John tilted his head up to look at Sherlock.

"Why?"

"Because I can." Sherlock looked down at John. Their noses were barely touching.

"N-No, I mean like – "

"I know what you mean."

John didn't know how to respond to that. He sighed and resumed trying to read as Sherlock placed his head on John's. He figured as long as it calmed him down, he'd let Sherlock have his way for now.

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Sherlock opened his eyes. The darkness of his room, the warmth of his body heat under the sheets . . . He turned his head to face the clock on his nightstand: 2:07. Another early-morning wake up call. What to do this time?

He lay there, staring at the ceiling. Maybe John could help him – he helped soothe his nerves the evening before . . .

Sherlock sat up and reached for his sleep shirt and pants. Matching of course, who in their right mind would wear mismatching clothes when sleeping? He didn't bother putting on socks. The floor was chilly, but it didn't really matter to him.

He tiptoed (more like walked – his footsteps had gotten quieter like a cat's over the last few days) across his room, through the door, up the narrow stairs, and made his way to John's bedroom, flinching at every little sound he heard along the way.

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John dreamt about how his home life was before Afghanistan. His mother, father, Harry, even their cat, Ebony, he loved so much. Cats were so easy. You didn't have to walk them, they were independent, and soft, plush companions to have around. They did so much together when he was growing up. Ebony would entertain him and play with him when his sister said she was "too busy". He made John feel better when he needed cheering up. They would butt their foreheads together, not just out of trust, but out of love; he would dig his face in the blonde hair when John had decided to sit on the couch or lay in bed. All through his childhood and adolescence, Ebony and John were two peas in a pod. He loved Ebony. He could still feel the pressure on his forehead from where Ebony had once touched. It felt so real.

" – on?"

Too real.

"John?"

John shot his eyes open and looked up at the face so close to his. His heart stopped, then started beating a mile a minute when he realized the face looking down at him.

"Sherlock?! Jesus, you nearly gave me a heart attack! Do you know what time –"

"Yes, and quiet, John." Sherlock's eyes darted toward John's open bedroom door, hoping nothing heard them.

"What are you doing in my bed?! What are you even doing in my room?!" John whispered frantically. John had noticed Sherlock curled under the sheets on the opposite side of the bed once or twice before and usually thought nothing of it. He rubbed his eyes and sat up slightly, letting the sheet fall to his stomach.

"Too much energy."

"So you think that's a good reason to climb on top of me in my own bed?!"

"Quiet, John, or Mrs. Hudson will hear you. And yes, I do, if that's what it takes to mellow out my mind, then so be it."

John stared blindly at the man on his hands and knees on his bed. The moonlight outside shone perfectly across Sherlock's face and shoulders. His jet black hair messily curled and touchable, his sparkling eyes wild with liveliness. Granted, he had managed to shift to the end of the bed away from John, but it was still too close to be comfortable, considering that John was half naked. He tried not to think about what would happen if he decided to take a chance and kiss Sherlock. _No_. If either of them wanted to make such a move, 2:10 in the morning was the worst time to do it.

"What do you expect me to do about your nonsense, Sherlock?" It was too early for Sherlock's odd habits, and he was interrupted from his sweet nostalgic dream. Sherlock merely cocked his head to the side, looking confused, but adjusted his position so he sat cross-legged facing his friend.

"I expect you to keep me company, John, but judging by your change in attitude from the previous smile on your face when I walked in, you seemed to be having a pleasant dream that I have interrupted." Sometimes this person's ability of deduction was scary. John closed his eyes and sighed.

"Correct."

"Tell me what it was."

John was taken back.

"Why?"

"To take my mind off the current matter."

"Fine, if you must know, I was dreaming about when I was a child and teenager with a pet I loved very dearly. Happy?"

"Not in the slightest. More detail please."

"An affectionate black cat with big blue eyes. His name was Ebony and –" Sherlock's eyes went wide as he continued to speak.

"Shut up!" Sherlock rolled his legs off the bed and stood up, thinking at his usual speed when he got an idea.

"I'm sorry, why?"

"Your pet cat, John! A cat! That's the characteristics I've been portraying! The skittish feelings, high levels of energy at ridiculous times in the morning, and the sudden feelings of affection, those more recently, though."

"Sherlock, you're talking in monologue, again, and please tell me you're not going to sprout ears and a tail." John flopped back onto his pillow, tired of his shenanigans at such a bad time.

"No, this time I'm just talking really fast, I don't expect any physical changes, thank you, and I need to go research characteristics of cats, John, I might be a while."

"Ok, (a) it's almost 2:15 in the morning, Sherlock, that's absolutely ridiculous, and (b) don't you already know how a cat generally behaves?"

Sherlock stood there, anxious to get out, with his palm flat against the doorframe.

"I never grew up with pets. I didn't have the time for them." With that, Sherlock Holmes abandoned John Watson's bedroom to gather information about cats.

"And how do you know that isn't just – " John tried, but Sherlock was already gone. John almost felt sorry for the poor man, just now realizing this information. He flopped back onto his pillow, tired of his shenanigans at such a bad time.

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The next morning was no better than a few hours before. John walked out into the sitting room to find that Sherlock was lying sideways in _his _chair, his head resting upon one armrest and his long arms and legs dangling off the back and sides of the furniture.

"John, I'm hungry. Get me food."

John just glared down at his flatmate. No way was he going to make food for this man after his rampage last night, and especially not without saying "please" at least. He continued through the room to the kitchen to make something for him to digest. He shuffled his hand in the fridge over separated body parts in containers until he found the cold pizza they ordered from last night. He put two slices into the microwave and waited.

The microwave chimed and John pulled his food onto a plate. He took a bite and stood over the body in his chair.

"You know you have your own chair."

"But I want to sit in yours." Sherlock pulled the small couch pillow John sat with and pulled it up to his chin. "It smells like you and I like it." He rubbed his cheek against the patterned fabric. "Now it's mine."

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John liked looking out the window of the taxi when he came home from work – so many young people enjoying their evening, laughing and having a good time. And the stores and shops were busy with even more people going in and out with bags hanging from their arms. They all looked to be having fun.

_Maybe I should take Sherlock out for some fun. He'd probably enjoy it_, he thought. Then one store caught his eye – a pet shop. It reminded him of what Sherlock had said about himself earlier about feeling cat-like. He got an idea that made him smile wickedly. Good thing Sherlock was wearing his favorite purple shirt that almost screamed "rip me open!"

"Driver, stop here, please."

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Sherlock lay on the couch, held his hands together prayer-like in the empty apartment, and analyzed his feline behavior based on all the information he's read.

(a) The high levels of energy built up in his system at unthinkable times in the morning.

(b) The skittish behavior at the slightest sound or movement at any time.

(c) Wanting to be near anything that reminded him of John, especially his bed and chair (including that damn pillow).

(d) The constant demanding or lack of manners (John always had to correct him and metaphorically hold his hand through social protocols anyway – but still mentionable).

(e) The awkward feelings of sexual tension.

Sherlock dug deeper into that last observation. He had read online that when cats are not spayed or neutered, they tend to get sexually active to suppress their urges. He had those feelings whenever he was near John, and did his best not to show it. Even now he could clearly imagine the ex-military doctor walking through the door in those plain clothes or crazy sweaters that Sherlock fancied on him so much. Oh, how he wanted to see what scars lay under those clothes and everything his body had to offer to his eyes.

_Christ_, he thought, feeling his pants grow tighter around his groin very quickly. Now all he had to do was just _think_ about John! Fantastic!

As if on cue, the front door of 221B opened and the man of the hour entered the building. Sherlock rushed around, trying to clean up his mess and conceal his new erection.

"Sherlock! I have something for you." John called, thumping up the stairs. Sherlock quickly slumped into his seat, appearing to look bored again. In less than a second, he thrust himself into John's armchair, instantly calming down and relieved to be back in it. John came into the living room with a small bag from the pet shop just a few blocks down.

"What's in the bag?" Sherlock asked cautiously. He felt like the short man was playing some kind of game with him, and that made him all the more interested in what John had to offer. The friction of flesh and fabric was a cruel attempt of his body playing its own game.

John reached into the plastic bag and withdrew a simple, dark purple collar with a tag in the shape of a heart with some sort of engraving on it. Sherlock just blinked at it.

"Let me explain –"

"Yes, _please_ do, John."

"I thought that since you've been all hyped up with this idea that you are turning into some sort of cat – "

"I never said I was –"

"Let me finish, Sherlock, questions later. I thought that I would get you something to kind of 'seal the deal' and hopefully add some humor for me. If you're going to be acting like a domestic animal, at least wear this so I won't go crazy."

Sherlock exchanged glances from the collar to John. He had to admit, John bringing a collar into this particular situation was somewhat sexy. It unconsciously called out that John was obviously the more dominant of the two. Not that Sherlock minded, of course.

"Why the heart shape and what does it say?" John's ears turned pink at the question.

"All the other tags were either sold out or specifically for dogs. It says," John brought the tag closer to his eyes, "'If found, please return to Dr. John H. Watson'. The girl at the counter insisted." He shrugged his shoulders and waited for Sherlock to give him an answer.

This is such sweet torture.

Sherlock did a half-smile and sat up straight in John's chair.

"I'll wear it if you put it on me, John."

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John stood there and felt his stomach begin to knot. He was partially amazed that Sherlock didn't immediately think he was crazy himself for proposing such an absurd idea and turn him down. Also partially that Sherlock seemed to enjoy this.

When he saw that Sherlock was waiting for him, he strode over to him and unclicked the ends of the collar that connected.

"Promise me you won't wake me up in the middle of the night anymore?" John joked, looking down at the elegant head of curls below him.

"Maybe, but for different reasons." Sherlock practically purred in delight when he saw John's face flush. The collar clicked around his neck; Sherlock reached up with one hand and gripped the hem of John's shirt, never breaking their intense gaze. "Does this mean you own me now?"

"S-Sherlock – " John started, but was cut short when he was pulled down. He could feel his breath on his neck. The sensation made him shiver. Sherlock brought his leg up so his bare foot rested on the cushion and he leaned back, pulling John with him so he was in between the long legs. He held one hand out onto the back of the furniture next to Sherlock's ear for balance.

"I like the way you smell, John." Sherlock rubbed his cheek and nose against John's neck and opposite cheek. "I believe when cats do this, it's what they call 'marking something as their own'. You're mine now; just like I'm yours, John Watson."

John remembered to breathe. He needed this man so badly he couldn't think straight. He broke away from Sherlock to grab his face and smash their lips together. Sherlock smiled and molded into the kiss. John backed Sherlock up and dug his knee into the cushion, spreading his legs farther than he had done already. Sherlock snaked his hands, then arms, over John's shoulders and around his neck, drawing their chests closer. John carefully grazed his warm tongue over Sherlock's thin, inexperienced bottom lip and dropped his hands to Sherlock's waist, dragging the rest of their bodies together. It was blatantly obvious that Sherlock didn't know how to progress the situation – he was just a big flirt, but it was John that knew exactly what to do.

He pushed between Sherlock's slightly parted lips until he found Sherlock's own tongue, earning a quiet moan. They danced and twirled inside the hot opening until John felt that getting his pants off his straining erection was more important than Sherlock's mouth. He separated himself, leaving Sherlock's lips red and needy. He made a small, almost inaudible, noise in protest.

"How do you want your first time, Mr. Holmes – my armchair or your bedroom?" John questioned charmingly in Sherlock's ear. He palmed Sherlock between his legs through the surprisingly soft material of his pants, waiting from an answer from the detective. Sherlock dug his nails into John's back and gasped for breath. "Tell me, Sherlock," he ordered.

"B-Bed–"

John silenced Sherlock's hasty decision by hoisting him up into his arms. Sherlock locked his ankles behind John's back to keep him from sliding as John gripped his firm arse and back for support. Although John was a good 6-8 inches shorter, he was still strong enough from his military days to carry the detective with ease.

"John!" Sherlock managed to speak out.

He attached his lips to the pale, bony collarbone and sucked, walking rather quickly to the closest bedroom – that being Sherlock's.

He barged through the door, nearly knocking down whatever was hanging from it, and dropped Sherlock on his back onto the bed. He sat up and gazed intensely at the magnificent sight – Sherlock, still fully clothed, panting from hardly any action, beet red and half-covering his face. The collar around Sherlock's neck contrasted nicely with his luminescent skin and silky black curls. Two of his shirt buttons had already come undone, showing off the smooth flesh of his torso underneath. John fingered the buttons and one-by-one popped them open, gently kissing the newly-revealed patches of skin, until he got just above the button of Sherlock's pants. Sherlock had managed to slip his fingers into John's sandy-blonde hair to hold him in place.

"Bottom drawer," Sherlock breathed, completely aware of the upcoming events. He may be a virgin, but he did take Biology in school; he wasn't bloody stupid about how these things went!

"Oh, no. It's much too early for that." Sherlock shot his direction of vision down at John, strategically hovering over his erection.

"John, what do you – " Sherlock was cut short yet again, this time hitching his breath when his length was released from his constricting pants through the zipper. He blushed furiously.

John hadn't done this with another man before, but he took his past experiences from other women into consideration. He curled his tongue and flicked it across the tip of the pink flesh, now beginning to leak with precum. Sherlock's toes curled and he threw his head back at the touch. Low growls hummed deep in Sherlock's throat, threatening to escape in his erotic baritone voice, but John continued on. His lips formed an "O", teasingly engulfed the head into his mouth, released, and dragged his tongue down the underside of his column, leaving a thick trail of saliva. Sherlock held his tight grip in John's hair, holding back from crushing his head between his legs. John ran himself back up to the head and engulfed his mouth around it once more. He slid down until almost all of Sherlock fit comfortably in his mouth. Sherlock jolted, giving a tiny thrust into the mouth around him. John grinned and began to bob his head up and down, taking all of him in and Sherlock panting in pleasure.

He could feel the contractions building up in Sherlock's abdomen and base of prick, signaling he was already so close. John sucked hard, stealing whatever air Sherlock was trying to breathe, and engrossed Sherlock's hard flesh with his hand. He was now nice and slick with John's saliva, so he was easily able to glide up and down Sherlock's shaft, pumping harder and faster until –

"John!" Sherlock yelled. His back arched, his knuckles turned whiter from the sudden death grip on his sheets, and he covered John's skilled hand with his hot fluid. Sherlock peeked at John, who caught his attention and intentionally licked one of his fingers clean before wiping the rest off with an old t-shirt lying around. John allowed Sherlock to take a minute or two to catch his breath (had he been breathing at all?) and even to catch up himself.

"Speechless?" John chuckled, casually stripping off his own shirt and pants while his submissive wasn't looking.

"Fuck, John ~" Sherlock hummed once he was able to speak again. He felt John gently tugging at the bottoms of his pants, slowly getting them to pile up at one ankle and then flung to the floor somewhere behind him. His plaid trousers, now at his mid-thighs, would soon have to go.

"Look at this," John pointed out. "Even after all that, it's still halfway up." He winked at Sherlock below him and kissed him tenderly.

"That's because you took off your clothes, John, obviously." Sherlock kissed back, this time knowing to add his tongue to the kiss from what he learned previously.

"You saw that?"

"Of course, I did. And you're still muscular from your army days." Sherlock eyed whatever toned muscle remained on his abdomen and chest. John placed his hand under Sherlock's mess of black curls, loving the way it felt between his clean fingers.

"Then I guess you're ready for round two, my little pet. Bottom drawer, you said, right?"

"Meow, yes," Sherlock purred sweetly in John's ear. "Go easy on my ass, okay?"

John's libido instantly increased. Who said anything about going easy on Sherlock?

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_**Hello Again! ^u^**_

_**I was so reluctant to post this, but first Johnlock fanfiction, so please don't hate . . . 3 (I'll get better, I promise!) **_

_***For those of you who read my Dream Catcher series (Rise of the Guardians, BlackIce), did you pick up on Ebony? ;) The eye color is different, but that's cuz I wanted to relate John's Ebony to Sherlock . . . I tried . . .***_

_**I don't know what else to say to you lovely people so . . . **_

_**Thanks a Bunches and Stay Awesome! **_


	2. Chapter 2

_**Hello and Welcome!**_

"_**Sherlock", Sherlock Holmes X John Watson (2014) (a.k.a. Johnlock)**_

_**SO! This chapter is a little different because fanart at 2:30 a.m. is not a good idea, but great for writing new chapters!**_

_**Quick backstory before we continue: John has concluded that he is indeed bisexual, but only for Sherlock. Wow, such a surprise. Sherlock has concluded that his behavior has not changed, he was just getting incredibly bored and his mind started getting all wacky (a different wacky – not the cute-wacky he already is). The end of the case I'm describing has nothing to do with any original scripts from any episodes! :D**_

_**Thank You and Enjoy the Show!**_

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John Watson slouched in the taxi seat, tired from the day's activities of crime-solving, deducting, and running around. Why? Because he was following the world's only consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes, that's why. Not that John didn't like it; he, in fact, enjoyed it very much. It was just all the assumptions and questioning of John and Sherlock's relationship. Gay or not gay? Dating or not dating? Those kinds of questions. John already knew he loved Sherlock and wanted to try an emotional relationship as well as physical, but Sherlock didn't know if he was ready for such a big step. Committing your heart and soul to one person proved to be, not annoying, but a rather difficult thing to do.

He remembered an event that happened at the crime scene earlier that evening. He and Sherlock went over to a little boy, about seven or eight years old, standing next to the police. His father was no longer a suspect and he looked so happy. John asked if the boy was alright and needed anything else, like a hat or blanket to keep him warm. The boy said no. Before John turned to leave with Sherlock, the boy grabbed his sleeve. He bent down so he was eye-level with the boy, like the child wanted to tell him some secret. The boy asked in his ear if he and the smart detective man liked each other. John didn't get upset at the question. He asked the boy why he thought that. The boy replied with "Because you smile at each other when you aren't looking," and he looked over John's shoulder to Sherlock. Sherlock was in fact smiling at John and rubbed his nose to pretend like nothing happened and tried conversing with a nearby cop.

He blinked, coming back to reality when the taxi stopped at 221B Baker Street. He had been so lost in thought that he hadn't realized how fast the drive was or how pink his face had gotten! Sherlock hurried him out of the car. How could the man still have so much energy after the excitement of perfectly timed murders all day? Nevertheless, John exited the car and waited for Sherlock to stretch his lengthy limbs out onto the pavement. Just by looking at his face, John saw that Sherlock was like a happy child with that adorable smile from the case, and seemed somewhat anxious. Now that this huge case was solved, there wouldn't be any good ones for him to get all excited about for a while.

_Great, now I'll be listening him cry "Bored, bored, bored" for days_, John thought. He yawned a little too loudly as Sherlock twisted the doorknob of their flat.

"What, tired already, Dr. Watson?" Sherlock teased. "How could you be so drowsy after a full day of excitement?!" He took the stairs two at a time up to the sitting room while John struggled with the first few step. John loved his enthusiasm, but he just needed to sit down for a while, that's all!

"It's a little late to start cooking something for dinner, Sherlock. Why don't we order takeout?" John peeled his coat off his body and hung it over the rack at the top of the stairs. It felt good to just be in comfy jeans and a sweater. He liked his sweaters.

"Mrs. Hudson left us leftover in the fridge to heat up."

"Alright then."

"John?"

"Hm?" John acknowledged subconsciously. He looked up and found the tall man quickly starting to close the distance between them.

"Usually I'm not one to initiate anything intimate," he backed John up to the wall, "but . . ." Sherlock pinned John's arms up next to his head. His loose grip on John's wrists tingled at the touch and a smile twitched to his face.

"I hope you're not too tired for me," he purred erotically, nudging his forehead into the crook of John's neck. John's stomach did a full flip-flop. He looked over Sherlock's shoulder and found his scarf, coat, and hat effortlessly piled on the floor – had he been anticipating this? Given the current situation, it sure as hell looks like it. He securely gripped Sherlock's thin waist and rolled him along the wall so their positions were switched.

"I'll never be tired of you, Sherlock." He shifted his leg in between Sherlock's against his groin and kissed his thin lips sweetly. Sherlock smiled against the kiss and buried his hands in John's hair. He parted his lips as his warm tongue glided out and touched John's own. Sherlock was quite a fast learner. John allowed the taller man to take some control, tilting his head a tad to get the best angle for easier access. John smiled, but broke the kiss. "And just how long have you been hiding this?" he emphasized 'this' by grazing his knee against Sherlock's erection, hidden by black pants. Sherlock's complexion grew pink at the sudden friction.

"Since you were talking to that kid before we left. You're so good with kids, John; it's somewhat sexy," Sherlock breathed heavily. "I had to restrain myself from having you right there in the taxi." John chuckled and pecked Sherlock's lips.

"Would it be cruel of me to make you have to wait through dinner before I touched you again?" John smirked, put his leg from Sherlock's groin to the floor, and released his torso to place his palms flat on the wall for balance. Sherlock tried to pull John closer, hands grabbing at his back over his shoulder and outside leg wrapping around John's for support, but the ex-soldier stood his ground. He needed John to touch him. More contact, more friction, more –

"Look at that," he leaned in towards Sherlock's ear. "I'm making the great Sherlock Holmes beg." Sherlock's mind went blank and his body stopped squirming.

"As I've told Ms. Adler, I've never begged for mercy in my life," he stated in a raspy voice.

"I wonder how many times you'll beg for _me_, Sherlock," John cooed in his ear, completely ignoring his claim. He took Sherlock's earlobe between his teeth and made the genius shudder. "I guess I'll have to find out after dinner." John's own erection was straining against his jeans, but he could last through dinner without contact easily. He slipped out of Sherlock's tight grip and out of his reach before he had time to recapture John. Sherlock whined in protest, but John only smiled more as he headed for the kitchen. Sherlock grinned happily at his playfulness.

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_**Hello Again! ^u^**_

_**Just a cute story I wrote during a 9-hour car ride through the middle of nowhere :D**_

_**So this whole "Sherlock wants Constant Attention!" story might just be a couple of one-shot chapters (some cute and feels-y, some a little on the sexy side) *sparkles***_

_**I'm actually quite proud of this chapter, despite it being so short. I had planned on writing more, but it got on the horribly-awkward side really quick, so I decided against it. **_

_**Honesty, bros *sparkles again***_

_**Thanks a Bunches and Stay Awesome!**_


	3. Chapter 3

_**Hello and Welcome!**_

"_**Sherlock", Sherlock Holmes X John Watson (2014) (a.k.a. Johnlock)**_

_**As usual, this chapter shall be different. "What's different this time?" you ask. This chapter is a long one that I woke up at 3:30 am to write the outline for, so I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it! **_

_***IMPORTANT NOTE* These chapters, unless otherwise noted, will not be connected in any way. Meaning, one chapter might have lovely passionate sex, the next, shy and aloof that Sherlock and John haven't established any sort of relationship with. These, as I've stated before, are purely one-shots and in no way meant to be part of an overall storyline. **_

_***ANOTHER IMPORTANT NOTE* So I haven't seen the episode in which John and Sherlock get drunk, go home, and play the game where they each have to guess who they are (Sherlock is Sherlock, John is Madonna: "Am I a pretty lady?"), so I made up my own drunk-scene! Before anyone goes bat-shit crazy about how inaccurate the miniscule information or the timeline of events according to the original Sherlock show is compared to what I'm writing, please know that the chapters I write are 200% fiction (yes, I said 200). The only "real" factors are John, Sherlock, other possible characters (i.e. Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson, Moriarty, etc.), and specific locations (i.e. 221B Baker St.). **_

_**I thank you for your patience and understanding. You are good people.**_

_**Thank you and Enjoy the Show!**_

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((Part 1))

John Watson knew Sherlock Holmes was gay. A lot of people did, for that matter. But he never expected to have strange and similar feelings for the man so inexperienced in love.

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John fumbled with the front door lock to his flat. It had been a long day and even longer mystery to solve. Yet they managed to catch the criminal, save the day (along with a few lives), and celebrate afterwards. _That_ was the mistake.

He figured he would take Sherlock to a nice restaurant to not only mark their achievements as a team, but also to acknowledge their 4-years of friendship. It was kind of a big deal to Sherlock. Forgetting the fact that he didn't have anyone so close in his life (except maybe Mycroft, but brothers didn't count did they?), John finally forgave him from his two year absence of death. Things had almost gone back to normal.

John had gotten a girlfriend while Sherlock was "dead" and intended to propose marriage. And he had asked Sherlock to be the best man. The best man, of all things! Sherlock was already crushed enough that his best friend, flatmate, and "secret lover" as he called it (because of the assumptions of them being a couple from countless people) was getting himself hitched. It was worse that he was asked by that very person to be by his side; practically handing over his "lover" to a woman he barely knew and hardly trusted! Sherlock either wanted to shrivel up into a silent ball on the floor, or scream his head off and cry right in John's stupidly-adorable face. He was absolutely torn.

But now they were peaceful, and _one_ of them had decided that drinking more than he should would be no problem to him. Sherlock had drained the bottle they shared during their meal while John just stared at him, halfway done with his second glass. He could hold his liquor just fine – Sherlock, apparently not so much.

So _now _here they were, outside their flat that they shared. The air around them was crisp and cool with the night close to approaching 10 o'clock, but Sherlock showed no signs of chill whatsoever. No goosebumps, no silky blue scarf wrapped around his pale neck, nothing! Just his collarbone exposed from his open coat and tight purple shirt, face flushed a light shade of pink, and a wide smile that made John feel better about anything just by looking at it. He had no idea what the drunkard was babbling about this time, but just the sound of his voice wrapped the day in a nice big bow.

John clicked the lock and pushed open the door, dragging Sherlock under his arm. They half-walked/half-trudged up the stairs, and had to stop once or twice to regain balance. Sherlock was starting to slip from John's grip and he didn't want his falling and breaking his neck. They stopped at the short flooring connecting the two thin staircases.

"Alright, Sherlock, you have to walk up this part yourself. My arm is nearly numb from carrying you," he gently leaned the dainty man against the wall and rotated his shoulder, trying to get the feeling back into his limb. It was the same feeling you get when your foot falls asleep, and it was not all that comfortable.

"But John ~" he started, staring up at the stairs that seemed to grow longer the more he stared at them, "it's so many stairs! You _have _to carry me!" Sherlock tried to wrap his lengthy arms around John's neck, but John grabbed his wrists in protests.

"Look, I'm not going to carry you, but I will help you get up, we'll get comfortable, and I'll make us some tea or something. Okay? How does that sound?" Sometimes he had to treat him like a child to get him to say anything rational. Sherlock pouted, but nodded his head. He let John take his hands and he guided him up the stairs. Sherlock grew happy at the sight of John's small hands inside his bigger ones. He started laughing.

"What's so funny?" John grunted, looking over his shoulder so he could see the next step behind him.

"Your hands are so tiny!"

"Yes, thank you, Sherlock." He tried not to sound too sarcastic.

"But you have a big heart so small hands are okay. Cute, in fact." He loosely curled his fingers over the backs of John's hands. The tips were cold from the lack of gloves on their way home. They almost made it to the top of the stairs when John stopped. He tried not to acknowledge the blush racing across his cheeks. It wasn't common for Sherlock to compliment him without some smart ass remark afterwards, especially after saying it so casually.

"Thank you," he smiled down at the detective.

"Look how high we are!" Sherlock unconsciously ignored John's response and glanced over the stair railing at the first floor. It wasn't high whatsoever, but who knows what went on in Sherlock's brilliant mind at any given time unless he spoke aloud.

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John was in the kitchen, busy with tea making. He was able to get Sherlock to lay on the sofa, give him his coat to hang up, and sit still so he wouldn't do anything stupid. So far, his role of playing "nurse" was going well. No pun there. John clicked off the stove and picked up the kettle of boiling water, ready to be distributed into two cups.

"I don't want you marrying Mary, John. I don't want to give you up."

John froze mid-pour. He didn't overflow the cup, but he stopped moving, analyzing the meaning of his words, and shocked that Sherlock would say that at all. He wasn't negatively surprised; he just never expected him to say that . . .

"What do you mean, Sherlock? You were dead for two years and I grew to love a nice and beautiful woman."

"Did you meet her after you found out I died? Was she –" Sherlock paused, "is she my replacement? What can she do for you that I can't, besides give you kids, of course, but even still –"

"Sherlock!" John ran to him and put his hands in his shoulders, instantly silencing him. "Why in the world would you think that?! I met her a good year after your death. I went to your grave every day I could and just talked to your headstone like you were still listening." What was he saying? "Mary could never replace you, Sherlock, you should know that by now!"

Sherlock stayed silent. He stared intensely at John with big blue eyes, eyes you could easily get lost in and never want to return from. But he broke the gaze and slumped back into the sofa with his back facing John.

"It's just, you're perfect," he muttered. "You're kind and smart and brave and strong. I feel like you're my other half, John. I most likely wouldn't be the person I am right now if just anyone was next to me." A headache started to form at the top of his forehead. He pressed on. "You're the _only _person I feel this comfortable around; as if I can tell you, and only you, anything and everything." John heard Sherlock's voice crack with a sniffle. "I always want to protect you from everything I can. I know you're a grown man from the military, but I still want to keep you out of harm's way." He looked over his shoulder to see John seated in the floor, giving the ranting man his full attention. The alcohol was starting to wear off, but there was no turning back now. "I fell off that roof because I wanted to protect you, John. Obviously it was a trick, but if I hadn't done that, I can't even imagine what would've happened to you. It's just that I really –"

John grabbed Sherlock in a tight embrace, nuzzling his face into the cool pale neck. His face had grown noticeably warm because of his friend's caring words.

"It's okay," he whispered. "I have a feeling I know what you're going to say and I know how hard this must be for you."

Sherlock shut his teary eyes and pulled John over him onto the couch so he had his face snuggled against John's stomach. He wrapped his arms around his waist and inhaled the sweet, sweater-scent of John Watson until he drifted asleep.

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The next few days were interesting. John knew how Sherlock felt about him – he could tell just by the way the man acted around him compared to other people – yet hasn't said a word about it since. It seemed to John that Sherlock had forgotten he had said that night at all. Maybe John could do a little experiment of his own . . .

Sherlock had once again done a brilliant job of solving another mystery, although it was a rather small one that would leave him bored as soon as they got seated into a taxi home. The evening traffic and trying to get a cab was horrendous (any normal person would have had serious case of road rage by the time they got to a stoplight), and John considered the fact of actually losing Sherlock in the sea of pedestrians and vehicles. That would be horrendous in its own way, wouldn't it?

John reached out and took Sherlock's large hand in his; Sherlock was right, he did have small hands compared to him. Nevertheless, he curled his fingers between Sherlock's own, gave a light squeeze, and pushed through the crowd of people with Sherlock behind him. With the amount of bodies and nighttime lights closing around them, one might think they were simply running to catch the next departing train or something.

He felt a squeeze back. He wasn't sure if it was to hold on through the sea of people, or simply to hold on tightly to John in a public place. If Sherlock had said anything against hand-holding, John couldn't hear a single word. Between the rush of cars, chattering of people, and the surprising fuzzy-feeling of his own head in this situation, he couldn't hear a damn thing. Not that he cared, anyway.

John grinned wide. He hadn't felt like this in years! He realized he only felt this way with Mary a few times within the first few months of dating her, but even then it wasn't as strong as it is now. Similar feelings sporadically happened to him when he was with Sherlock. A twisting sensation tingled high in his gut and he could tell that Sherlock's intense gaze was at the nape of his neck and back of his head.

Eventually, they ran through the crowds enough so there were only a few people here and there left standing around them. Most were walking past, unaware of the two men huffing and puffing for air. The chilly air felt good as it ran down their throats and through their lungs.

"Geeze, you have tight grip! Did you not hear me calling after you to slow down?" Sherlock was certainly caught off-guard when John took his hand and didn't pay attention to him.

"Sorry," John smiled, but didn't know what else to say. His mind was still working at a mile-a-minute. He didn't dare make eye contact, for fear that Sherlock would say something cute that he would deny by habit.

But Sherlock didn't say anything; he didn't know how to word his feelings or thoughts without drinking, and that probably wasn't going to happen again anytime soon. He looked down at the short man continuing to grasp his hand. He looked so bashful with his rosy cheeks and adorable smile that his own lips twitched to a happy grin. His stomach tightened.

"John," Sherlock's voice cracked as he muttered the name. John turned his head and found his gaze straight into the coat-covered chest. Long arms wrapped around him and pulled his close. Sherlock's wonderful scent filled his nose and eased his nerves. To John's surprise, he found himself relaxing at Sherlock's comforting touch. He closed his eyes and returned the embrace. He could feel the fast heartbeat above his breast plate against his ear. He didn't care if anyone saw them. He was happy right now with this man and that was all that mattered to him.

"John, I didn't get to, um," John looked lazily up at the attractive mess of curls above him, "tell you that night that I, um," Sherlock beamed nervously and looked away for an instant before resting his gaze back at John.

"I already said it was okay. I know, I'm your best friend, and you – "

"No, you're more than that to me." Sherlock's face grew hot and pink from the sudden blood rush to his cheeks.

He said it.

Not exactly the words he had in his mind, and certainly not like any cheesy romantic movie scene, but it certainly took John off guard.

"Think about it John. I'd go to great lengths to keep you safe and even greater lengths to see you happy."

"Sher –"

"No, John, you have to hear me out this time." John stayed silent and dropped his hands loosely to Sherlock's waist. Butterflies threatened to escape Sherlock's stomach, but he continued. "There's a lot I can't do on my own and I'm more than grateful to have you with me," Sherlock whispered. He wanted to say more, but he couldn't believe the emotional shock he just put himself through. Being solely focused on the facts and observations of everything around him most of his life, he felt insecure about feeling this strongly over something such as John. John chuckled sweetly.

"You look like a teenage girl, Sherlock."

"Shut up, I'm being serious!"

"So would a cute teenage girl who just finished confessing her love!" John joked. Sherlock stared at John, hoping he would try to pick up what he had just done and how difficult it was. John's expression dropped as he saw the emotion swell in Sherlock's eyes. No tears were forming, but they looked darker and deeper than usual. And John knew exactly what he meant.

**Sherlock loved him.**

His face rapidly darkened with red at the sudden realization. He released Sherlock's waist in slight astonishment, never breaking eye contact. How could a man this brilliant love a man as average as him?

John's cell phone suddenly buzzed in his pocket and the ringtone played loudly, interrupting the semi-awkward moment. Sherlock knew _that_ ringtone too well and tried to ignore it when John quickly looked away to answer it.

"Mary! Hi, yes, we just finished up. Yes, we had to make a quick stop, but we're on our way back now." John silently motioned Sherlock to follow him to where the available taxis would be. "Yes, I love you too. Alright, see you soon."

Sherlock quickly brushed John's ever-so casual conversation with his fiancée of his out of his mind. He saw how flushed John's face had gotten – you couldn't tell Sherlock that he didn't feel something back. He could feel a small mixture of the harsh emotions bubbling in his chest. Jealousy? Envy? Regret? Too many confusing emotions for one night, he decided. Hopefully he could sleep in peace tonight and try to forget he almost had a shot with John Watson and almost succeeded. Hopefully.

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_**Hello Again! ^u^**_

_**See what I mean by "different"? It took me a long time to write this chapter (I enjoyed every minute of it though), and the next part of this mini-story will be posted when it is perfect! *Italian accent and kiss in the air***_

_**I was writing an outline for another Johnlock story, except this time, it will be a four-way crossover including "Sherlock", "Doctor Who", "Lord of the Rings", and "Star Trek: Into Darkness" (gee, I wonder what the connection is). Basically, it's about John, still not able to move on after Sherlock's death, traveling through time and space to search for him. Sound interesting? (Please let me know . . . I'm trying to get different people's opinions about it and it would really help me out . . .)**_

_**Sorry for the extensive Author's Notes . . . So much I wanna say and not enough time to say it all, I guess . . .**_

_**Anywhoooooooo I'm done :3**_

_**Stay Awesome and Thanks a Bunches!**_


	4. Chapter 4

_**Hello and Welcome!**_

"_**Sherlock", Sherlock Holmes X John Watson (2014) (a.k.a. Johnlock)**_

_**Another long time for an update . . . **_

_**Thank You and Enjoy the Show!**_

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((Part 2))

John dreamt lucidly that night. He dreamt of an unrecognizable place and a blank background. He dreamt of Mary, Sherlock, his friends and family, like it was a grand get-together. He dreamt of each of them individually. He dreamt of his favorite person's smile. It was more unique than any other smile. The vision in his head grew blurry just under the nose, so making out the rest of the face was difficult. But he knew exactly whose radiant smile he saw most clearly.

The perfect pale white skin, with slight wrinkling in the chin and cheeks showing early signs of inevitable aging. The natural-pink lips, thin enough from lack of use, but thick enough for him to find intriguing. The almost white teeth shining bright in the light of his dreams, warm and welcoming to him. The way one corner of those lips perked up from amusement, and how both corners climbed up that very face at anything more. It was an unforgettable smile.

"John ~" the words escaped like silk, softly and quietly, through those entrancing lips. The light around the blurry edges of the distinct cheekbones grew the faintest shade of yellow before rapidly changing into a rosy pink. "I love you ~" The face seemed to inch closer as the the lips came together, appearing to be leaning in for a tender kiss.

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John bolted upright out of bed. He felt his heartbeat thudding violently in his chest and eardrums. It hadn't been a nightmare – not even an unpleasant one – just surprising considering his current situation. He regulated his breathing and checked the slender, shifting body sleeping peacefully beside him. Apparently, his sudden awakening hadn't disturbed her sleep.

John found it cute to an extent when Mary snored. She was usually so calm and collected that hearing her snore was equally surprising. Well, not _as_ surprising as his dream. He'd been sleeping in the same bed as Mary for a while since their engagement, so he nothing flabbergasted him.

He held his face in his hands, rubbing at his sleepy eyes. Turning his neck, he read the red digital numbers on his nightstand. _3:15 in the goddamn morning. _Nobody _should be allowed to be up at this time_, he thought, sighing quietly. _I wonder if Sherlock is okay _. . .

John had dropped off Sherlock back at 221B before coming back to Mary's flat. Sherlock didn't act any different than normal, but the scene on the sidewalk earlier flooded John's mind since he returned. He tried to imagine himself in the same house as him. The sheets were less patterned on his bed than the ones he and Mary slept in, but they seemed more inviting to him than now.

His mind darted to an image of Sherlock sleeping in his own bed in his own room. He had seen the man stark naked in nothing but a sheet before, but he wondered what he wore when he was sleeping . . . His perfect hair tousled and messy from tossing and turning, the easy expansion and compression of his smooth chest when he inhaled and exhaled. He wondered how he was sleeping now – on his side, letting the thin blankets follow his elegant figure? On his stomach, exposing those nice shoulder muscles that were hard not to look at? Or on his back, so vulnerable for a man usually so composed?

_NO, _he thought angrily, _I can't be thinking about a _man_, alone and possibly naked, when I'm in bed with my _female fiancée_! _ He glanced at Mary by his side. _This is going to be a very long rest of the night. _He sat there for a minute before flipping the blankets off his trouser-covered self, reaching for his cell phone, and licking his lips.

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Sherlock dug his face into his pillow, pressing his nose deep into the plush fabric. His ears were hot and he brought his knees to his chest. He had done it again. Damn him, damn him, damn him! Sherlock pressed further into his pillow and the knot in his chest twisted tighter.

He hadn't been able to escape into his mind palace without John managing to perfectly slip in and distract him. He hadn't been able to eat his dinner, whatever little food he did eat, without desperately wanting it to be John's cooking. He hadn't been able to sleep without the thought of John back in the flat where Sherlock felt he belonged. At some time around two am, he had thought of John in his bedroom, with no clothes, and maybe John just being John. Sweet, strong, caring John. That little side adventure led him to his current state.

Sherlock would clean up the sticky mess he made into his bed later when he wasn't feeling so worn out. He was pretty sure everyone on the street that was still alive at this hour heard him, but he didn't give two shits. Right now, he wanted nothing more than to drift off to sleep and hope that John would be back in the morning with tea for him.

His cell phone on the side nightstand buzzed quietly and its screen lit up his bedroom a bright white. _A text message? _he thought, peeling his eyes open and reaching for the little box. _Who is up at 3:20 in the morning to be sending _me _texts? _Sherlock's heart skipped a beat before threatening to jump out of his rib cage.

**Hey, are you awake? -JW**

**Yes, I haven't slept at all tonight. –SH**

Maybe he should've waited two or three minutes instead of responding so quickly . . .

**Good then. I mean, not good that you haven't slept, but good that I didn't wake you up! -JW**

**Even if I was asleep, I'd still wake up to answer you. –SH**

**That's really sweet and all, Sherlock, but you should try to sleep. You get cranky in the morning if you don't, and I'd rather not have to deal with that when I get back. –JW**

Why would John text him to ask if he was awake if he felt that Sherlock needed rest? An odd conundrum . . .

**And skip out on talking to you? Unlikely, John. –SH**

**Well, it's not really talking if I can't hear your voice, is it? -JW**

Sherlock felt the faintest smile creep across his face. Was this John's attempt at flirting? Sherlock pictured him doing that sexy little lip-lick habit he subconsciously did before sending the text.

**Then call me now. –SH**

Sherlock waited for a moment before the steady flow of vibrations tickled his hand and the all-too-familiar caller ID popped up on the screen of his phone.

"Hey."

"Shouldn't you be asleep?" Sherlock responded with a smirk.

"Yes, I should be; but I can't so . . ." John ended his statement awkwardly. Sherlock could hear John's footsteps shuffle along the floor of Mary's flat. It wasn't insomnia that was keeping him awake, but by the sound of his voice – no distress, no out-of breath or the worn-out feeling from sexual activities (that's what engaged couples did, right?) – it was obvious to Sherlock.

"I know you're deducing something, Sherlock, stop it!" John's request was moot.

"You must've dreamt something that caused your awakening, yes?" And the $10,000 prize goes to Sherlock. God, if he made $10,000 on every correct deduction he made, they'd be the ones living in Buckingham Palace! In nothing but sheets . . . John snapped his focus back.

"Not really."

"But it was enough to wake you up."

"Yes."

"Tell me what it was about."

_Damn him and his demands,_ John thought to himself on the other end.He hesitated before speaking.

"I just dreamt of my friends and family, you and Mary, and-"

"Me?"

John hesitated a third time. Maybe he did dream of Sherlock. Maybe he did feel _something_ beyond friendship for the quirky man. Maybe he slimly regretted giving up on Sherlock after he supposedly died. Okay. He completely regretted giving up on him, and after years together and and everything they'd been through, anyone would agree with his decision! He looked back at his bedroom where Mary slept and inhaled shakily. He turned back towards the mirror in his bathroom, his reflection dimly visible in the light of his phone, and straightened his posture.

"Yes, Sherlock. I did dream of you. I dreamt that it was just us two, undisturbed by anyone, and all I saw was your smile. I originally believed it was Mary's, but I quickly realized I was wrong. Very wrong." His wording was quick; he took a breath and slowed down. "I didn't want to wake up, Sherlock. I wanted to see more of you, but that was all I was allowed. And honestly, just seeing you smile like that made me feel like I was the only one in the world that knew how to make you smile that exact way."

Sherlock grinned wide. He knew what smile, a real smile, John was referring to. And it made him happy that John knew what kind of impact he had on Sherlock. He wanted to scream and laugh and cry right there into his pillow – but he didn't.

"Then why did you wake up?" he whispered.

The stampede of butterflies trapped in John's stomach scratched and clawed at his insides. He didn't know if what he said was the right thing to say at this time. He didn't know if the next few words would change how they saw each other. He was scared; but he took a chance and chose his words cautiously.

"Because it only took four words to get me to wake up."

This time, it was Sherlock's turn to hesitate. He knew John was beating around the bush. He could only imagine what his dream self said to John, but that all depended on how John viewed him. His mind flooded with possibilities, both admirable and horrendous.

"What did I say?" he asked, his voice cracking with anticipation.

"'John, I love you.'" John whispered those words carefully; fearing both of what Sherlock might think and if Mary was awake and heard him. Sherlock was shocked silent on his end of the phone call. His mind stopped functioning, but remained to ponder the words of his dream self. Dreams often reflected what the dreamer desired or sometimes relayed past events. Occasionally, they'll flash a glimpse into the future. Unlikely, but not impossible.

"It's a shame my dream self said it before I did." John's heart thudded loudly as he imagined Sherlock smiling his favorite smile before speaking. "Then again, I had three chances."

"Three?"

"Once when I was drunk and told you how I didn't want to hand you over to Mary, you remember that, don't you? And twice earlier this evening. Once after you pulled me through the crowd then hugged me so I would stop talking, and the second before the same woman called and interrupted us. I'm not wrong, John, and I don't forget."

John couldn't help but feel his face flush. Sherlock didn't feel much of anything for anyone, and the one time (okay, three) it was obvious he was expressing his feelings, John had stopped him. He covered his mouth. He realized his fingers were quivering against his dry lips. He wetted them and inhaled sharply.

"Sherlock, I –"

"My turn to stop you, John. I love you. Whatever way you want to interpret those words, I can guarantee it will all have the same meaning. I know you're not gay, and I, personally, am okay with that. Whatever makes you happy makes me happy." Sherlock could hear John's heavy footsteps trudging through his flat as he spoke. Given the quiet sound of static and rustling of the phone on the opposite end of Sherlock, he could assume that John now held his phone between his shoulder and his ear.

_Damn it all, bloody hell! _John thought. He wasn't sure if he was frustrated with himself or happy and excited. He grabbed a shirt and pair of (what he assumed was clean) pants from his closet. Messily-dressed teenagers were teased as have gotten dressed in the dark; John could concur that while it was convenient, it was somewhat difficult to do without stumbling sideways into the hallway walls to the front door of the flat.

"What are you doing that's causing so much noise? Won't Mary wake up?" Sherlock asked, suddenly concerned with being caught by the tough woman.

"I don't care about Mary or whether or not she'll wake up, Sherlock, because I'll be long gone by then."

"Where are you going? It's 3:30 in the morning!"

"Yes, I'm well aware of the time! I'm coming home to see you, Sherlock. I can't stand this anymore."

Panic rushed through Sherlock and his stomach felt like it was now wedged in his throat like he was falling off a building . . .

_No pun in intended_, he thought sarcastically.

"Um, okay, you have a key; do you want me to have anything ready for you when you get here, or . . .?" He hastily threw his soiled sheets off his body and into a totally-not-suspicious pile in the corner of his room, leaving his bed bare. Oh fucking well.

"Yeah, actually. A tidy flat, because I know it hasn't been tidy since I haven't been there, a fresh pot of tea, and you." Sherlock's blood shot to his groin. How could John say something like that so casually? John abruptly ended the phone call, shoved his arms into the sleeves of his coat and fumbled for his keys and any toiletries he may need from his sock drawer.

_Shit, do I wear a dressing gown or sheet?_ Sherlock thought rapidly. The sheets were soiled, after all. _Dressing robe it is, then._

Sherlock bustled about the flat (restacking books, throwing away trash, etcetera), and the tea, well, that wasn't really his level of expertise, but he got the water boiling, all in his red gown and fresh trousers. John ventured out into the cold night and, merely because of fate, managed to get into a taxi willing to drive him to 221B Baker Street while uncomfortably staying decent.

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_**Hello Again! ^u^**_

_**I had fun writing this chapter :3 **_

_**In case it was a bit confusing, I switched POVs often, since this is a phone call and text message conversation between these two.**_

_**I HOPE EVERYONE HAD A MERRY CHRISTMAS, HAPPY HANUKKAH, ANY HOLIDAY YOU LOVELY PEOPLE CELEBRATE THIS SEASON AND HAPPY NEW YEARS!**_

_**Whew, all caps is tiring . . .**_

_**Stay Awesome and Thanks a Bunch!**_


	5. Chapter 5

_**Hello and Welcome!**_

"_**Sherlock", Sherlock Holmes X John Watson (2014) (a.k.a. Johnlock)**_

_**DID YOU MISS ME? :3**_

_**I've been away a while with school, plays, work, people, etc . . . Finally finished most of it enough to continue writing . . . Have you ever read something you tried to write years ago and just cringe at all the gaps in the plot, misspellings, blatantly obvious simplicity, character clichés . . .? No? Okay then. **_

_**The long-awaited chapter continues!**_

_**Thank You and Enjoy the Show!**_

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((Part 3))

Sherlock sat cross-legged in his chair by the fireplace, hands positioned perfectly under his chin. The water was near boiling. The gentle ticking of a clock on the mantle pounded in his ears. And still no John. He ran his long fingers through his curly hair, ruffled it back to its messy flawlessness, and placed his hands back under his chin. And still no John. He wiggled his bare toes and gripped the chair fabric between them. And still no John.

_This is pointless. _Sherlock checked his phone. 3:45 a.m. No texts. No missed calls. John wanted the flat tidy upon his arrival, and it was tidy. John wanted tea when he arrived, it was half-made. John wanted him – well, John had to be here to get _that_.

Sherlock replayed the end of the phone call in his head:

"_Do you want me to have anything ready for you when you get here, or . . .?"_

"_I want you, Sherlock."_

At least that was how Sherlock interpreted the conversation before John hung up.

_He's on his way; he's alright; he'll be here soon_, Sherlock thought, attempting to calm himself down. He'd been worried about John before, and it was alright, but this time . . . something felt different . . . Maybe because he would finally have John to himself? Was he just getting excited? _Yes. Of course you're excited. How could you not –_

A car door slammed shut outside. Sherlock's heart stopped. The clock stopped ticking in his ears and the sound of the kettle instantly turned silent.

The front door downstairs unlocked and creaked open. Sherlock's heart jumpstarted. What should he do? Should he loosen up his robe? Take it off completely?

Pounding of footsteps on the flight of stairs. Sherlock scrambled in his chair. He shifted sideways so one leg lay across the arm of the chair and untied the thin fabric holding his red gown against his waist. His mind rapidly shot possible images of John: how much clothing was he wearing? What was John first planning on doing to him? How far would they go tonight? Sherlock's mind went blank when he saw the man he was waiting for.

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John Watson entered the sitting room to see a disheveled detective. He balled his fists at his sides, containing the urge to pounce on the man and take him right there in that chair. He swallowed hard, words becoming difficult to form. Sherlock waited for him to speak.

"Hi."

"_HI"?! HE BLOODY TOLD YOU HE LOVES YOU AND YOU RUSHED OVER HERE AND ALL YOU CAN SAY IS "HI"?!_

"Hello, John," the corner of Sherlock's captivating lips twitched upward, instantly relieving John's mental slap to the face.

"I see you did as I asked. Thank you," John looked around and took a step toward Sherlock.

"Such tempting requests, how could I not?" Sherlock smirked. John's face ran pink as his pants began to restrain against his ever growing hard-on. Sherlock leaned his head back against the chair and casually let the fabric of his robe slip down and expose the elastic band of his trousers. John cleared his throat – he couldn't help but dart his eyes towards Sherlock's tented trousers and back again to meet Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock didn't know if there was a virgin's guide to being sexy, but if there was, he was probably doing something right. "However, I've only boiled the water so I figured we'd –"

Sherlock was interrupted when John tilted his face and their lips touched. John's were warm and damp, probably from a particular licking habit, and tasted slightly of peppermint, probably from a Tic-Tac after waking up recently. Sherlock grinned and kissed back, happy that John took such precautions for him. John's hand slithered under the small of Sherlock's back and he pulled the detective close. He stood between Sherlock's lazily-opened legs. Sherlock's long fingers crawled up John's jumper-covered chest and found his neck, decreasing the distance between them and stabilizing their rhythm of kisses.

Sherlock broke the kiss to get some air (and to check if his hear was still beating), but John swooped back down and capture the pale thin lips with his own. He slipped his tongue across Sherlock's bottom lip, earning a pleasant moan in satisfaction. Sherlock raised his leg and hooked his ankle around John's knee. John released Sherlock's body, but not his mouth, and rushed to take off his coat and throw it across the room. The soldier came back and gently held on to Sherlock's delicate hips. He trailed messy kisses down Sherlock's cheek, jaw, neck, collarbone.

_Oh, God, this man tastes so good! Just the taste of him and a little of his amazing body wash . . . _John thought. He was amazed at himself for being able to string a coherent thought together. Sherlock's ability to mold like putty in his hand made it difficult for John to think of anything. Feeling the pain in his groin from the lack of space, John quickly unzipped his pants and released his own erection, damp from precum.

"John!" Sherlock cried, instantly wanting more of John's expert mouth and wanting friction on his full erection. He raked his hand through John's sandy hair and pushed him further into his chest. John saw the twinkle of desire in Sherlock's eyes before attaching himself to one perfectly pink bud that put all other nipples to shame. Sherlock arched his back at the feel of John's tongue flicking and teeth gently nibbling at his sensitive skin. He locked his ankles together behind John's back, needing more pressure on his throbbing erection.

"Sherlock, if you continue making such intoxicating noises, Ms. Hudson might walk in on us."

Should John have said that? Sherlock chuckled and covered his mouth, muffling out any other "intoxicating noises" that might come out of him. John shifted to the other nipple, mimicking his movements with the first one. 

"J-John, please, I n-need –" Sherlock grasped for breath, uncovering his mouth and gripping John's thick jumper like he would fall off if he were to release it. John rolled his hips against Sherlock, earning a loud groan that had to be recovered. John knew exactly what Sherlock wanted.

"Shh, Sherlock. Doctor John is going to make it all better." Never had John actually used his status as army doctor in a sexual situation, but Sherlock seemed to like it when he dragged his head back up to smash their lips together.

Sherlock craved John's touch like a new drug, and sparks flew through his body when flesh met flesh inside their mouths. John slipped his hand, the one not holding up Sherlock's back, under the soft red robe and under the elastic band of underwear. The tip of his index finger brushed along the damp tip of Sherlock's erection. Sherlock threw his head back, exposing his unmarked neck. John took the invitation and feasted on the porcelain skin – not enough to draw blood, but enough so that the mark would have to be hidden the next morning.

He curled his fingers around Sherlock, feeling the fast pulse and intense heat. Using whatever fluids Sherlock had already released, he moved his hand up and down the hard length, rubbing the head with his thumb every time his hand came back up.

"J-John, I'm gonna-"

"Sherlock!"

John spilled himself onto the fabric of Sherlock's chair. Sherlock covered John's hand and his own stomach with his hot fluid. Both men gasped for breath. Neither of them spoke – neither had the energy for speaking. John was the first to do any sort of clean up. He reached for a napkin and wiped off the mess from Sherlock's stomach and chair.

Sherlock longingly ran his hand through John's hair, feeling the mild dampness of sweat on his scalp. John looked up and saw Sherlock's perfect smile. He glowed so beautifully, just like in his dream.

Then reality figuratively smacked John in the face. He just made out with, marked, and gave his best friend one hell of a hand job. Only half an hour ago was John comfortably sleeping in the same bed as his female fiancée. Now he was wrapped up in his flatmate's half-naked limbs, covered in sweat and come. Great. Just fucking great.

"John, I –"

"We can never speak of this, Sherlock."

John instantly regretted saying it. But it had to be said. Sherlock's smile disappeared. Slowly, but surely, Sherlock released his grasp on John by unlocking his legs and loosening his grip on the jumper.

"What do you mean?"

_Bloody hell._

"This was a mistake, Sherlock, and you know it. I'm engaged and we're best friends. Do you understand?"

Sherlock did, but he refused to speak or accept it. He turned his face away, as if to make the tears beginning to form unnoticeable.

"If you're engaged and we're best friends, then why did you come over? Why did we even have that conversation on the phone, John?"

"I don't know. I was thinking about you and I guess I just got carried away," John tried to explain, but Sherlock wouldn't look at him. The first time Sherlock has done _anything_ intimate with a person and he was told to forget it even happened. "Sherlock, I'm really sorry –"

"No, I'm sorry. I allowed myself to be vulnerable and that hurt the both of us." Sherlock stood up and retied his night gown. "I don't know if my feelings for you are genuine or simply because I'm happy you've put up with me this long, but I guess it doesn't matter now."

_Excuse me?! You're the one that invited me over at this ridiculous time when you _knew _I was engaged! _

"Sherlock, please, I'm sure we can work this out –"

"You're welcome to spend the rest of the night in your room upstairs, but I want you to leave in the morning. I'm sure the future Mrs. Watson will be worried about you and your whereabouts by then." Sherlock spat out "Mrs. Watson" with sarcasm and anger. "Goodnight, John."

"Sherlock, wait!" But Sherlock had already left the sitting room to his room. John was alone and in an extremely awkward position.

He did want Sherlock's feelings to matter. He knew Sherlock loved him, perhaps not so much anymore, but he didn't want Sherlock's feelings of love to be wasted.

_So what does that leave me with?_

John knew he had feelings for Sherlock. If he didn't, he wouldn't have left his home with Mary at 3:30 in the morning to have an intense physical situation with him.

_I can't think right now. I'll fix this in the morning, when we've both relaxed a bit. Maybe I'll make him a nice breakfast or something._

John walked the tired walk of shame to his bedroom and fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.

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_**Hello Again! ^u^**_

_**So what is John going to do to fix this predicament, I wonder! **_

_**I've finally written another chapter . . . *phew* **_

_**You lovely people have been so patient, thank you so much! :D**_

_**Thanks a Bunch and Stay Awesome!**_


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